War

• Hamish McWhirter, Grade 6
• Poetry
• 2018

The boom of the savage rifles and machine guns echo through your ears.
Flying lead goes through the air and you are hoping that it doesn’t hit you.
The enemy soldiers have already killed hundreds of men.
Everything is coloured in different shades of red.
Everyone near you is dying or has died by a BOOM or a BLAST.
The slope of the hills makes it nearly impossible to shoot the enemy.
A piece of flying lead runs past your shoulder.
Your mates are digging like mad.
As you lay there dying, you feel the red blood dripping from your shoulder.
You are dirty from blood and dirt.
You wish you were home with your family.